


Paths of Revoked Treachery

by imperfectkreis



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Biting, F/M, Sex Magic, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-09
Updated: 2015-05-09
Packaged: 2018-03-29 19:49:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3908407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperfectkreis/pseuds/imperfectkreis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Running from Kirkwall, Marian and Anders are basically still idiots for each other. Can't think straight, get caught up in each other, won't think of their own safety.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paths of Revoked Treachery

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ballades](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ballades/gifts).



Anders tries to give Marian his robes, at least they would keep the water out. But she can’t do such a thing, he’ll be cold. They can’t stay to the well-worn paths of other travelers either, and they must believe that the rain will wash away their footprints as they run ahead.

They run and run until she is certain that her feet are bleeding in her boots. But she says nothing, holds Anders’ hand, and presses ever forward. If they stop too soon, they die.

She must be hallucinating the footfall of Sebastian Vael’s horses at their heels, it’s only the rain. Swallowing, she tells herself it’s only the rain.

It’s impossible to run forever. They tire, have to stop. Bethany leans against a fallen tree. She is crying through splayed fingers and there is nothing Marian can do. In Kirkwall she begged to be left behind, said she would be safe, that the Knight-Captain would protect her. But he is an incompetent fool. Nothing of the sort is within his power. Threads of plague insidiously woven into the fabric of her sister.

Bethany’s sobs stop as she finds sleep. Marian can’t quiet her mind to chase her drowsiness. So instead she tangles her calloused fingers in Anders hair, whispering that she needs him. Maker, does she need him. Across the breadth of his lap, she spreads her legs and grinds her hips against his, their bodies slotting together. And she needs. And he does too.

Leaving her sister for a moment under Bela’s care, they slip away together, not far. Not far enough because it’s not safe enough. The trees won’t hide them. They’ll be found like this, tangled together in the rain, slick. But Marian cannot wait for him, not a moment more. Not when she’s so keyed up on the chase, on his scent too, despite the water that tries in vain to drown him out.

There’s no time and no space and no spare clothes, but Anders works the tunic from her chest. Her back cakes with mud as it slides across the forest floor, his knees too. Everything sticks. Knowing the laces, buckles, snaps so well, he works her apart piece by piece. Inch by inch. He tosses her clothing away, out of reach, leaving her bare. Only her tall boots remain.

Anders bites at her exposed neck first. Whispers against it that she is too good for him, too good for this world. Thedas is undeserving. His hand presses against her unmarred chest. He covers her heartbeat. Racing, racing.

She held the knife in her hand with Anders already accepting his fate. Kirkwall aflame all around them. All along he had wanted to die, wanted her to be the end of him. The other way around too. They’ll get there, just not yet. 

“Fuck me,” she gasps as he demolishes. 

He tears at her everywhere until her skin is broken, hashmarks against her chest of their recklessness. Until he coats her in magic, lavishing over her skin, bringing her back from the brink. His teeth at her breast, she shrieks, the sound muffled in the barrier around them. Distracted as she was, she missed the dull thud of Anders casting.

“You belong to me,” he growls, working open his robes, then the laces to his trousers beneath them. Marian whines that they must hurry, but it is only on small account of their tenuous position. This desperation for him writhes inside her. She keeps it aloft because she can imagine it no other way. 

It falls in waves, “Yes, Anders, yes.” Marian fights for his possession, not against it. “Yours.”

He has her open, wet. The rain sifting in through the barrier, drop by drop against his covered back, what little isn’t absorbed by fabric rolling down until it falls against her skin, his sheltering an incomplete one. One leg in each hand, he spreads her, brutally wide. Her hips ache. 

The heat of his cock rubs against her thigh first, then her core, sliding against her sex. He uses one hand to hold it down, pressed against her cunt as he strokes. 

“Please, oh Maker, Anders!” This teasing must stop. 

Releasing her other leg as well, he places a hand at her throat, a feather light hold that makes her swallow thickly none the less. Her booted feet sink into the soft earth. “Please.”

He spears her all at once, the beat of a new barrier matching the punctuation of his cock inside her. The overwhelming pace of his thrusts and nothing for her to hold to as she spirals. Gripping his robes in her fists, she asks for mercy and finds none. Finds it all really. She only wants to forget a city in flames, a patchwork-doll face made from the rags of women, bodies torn to shreds. 

Marian wants to pretend that her back is slicked with earth by choice, because this is fun, and not a necessity of circumstance. 

“Come for me, Marian, you who I don’t deserve, but who nonetheless will always be mine.”

The barrier is not enough this time, there is nothing thick enough to hold her voice, she knows how it carries. It is not an impulse she can stop as she throbs around him, for him. Tearing down structures he never means to rebuild. Her legs shake, so do his amber eyes. Looking away, Anders says he loves her. Will always love her. Eyes locked, he says he is terrible, wretched. Pulling his softening cock from her body, he runs two fingers against her slit, then inside. Too sensitive now, she recoils a little, but he stops her with his other hand on her abdomen. 

Rain comes heavier now, his magic dissipated. Anders fetches her clothes, helps her dress. She’ll swallow down his anguish until it makes her ill, until it stains her lips and teeth. By now he must know her adoration of this affliction.


End file.
